Hiding Behind Call

I've been attending Central Presbyterian for almost sixteen years.  It's been a social justice church that whole time.  In fact, it's always been a social justice church.  It's kind of impossible not to be when your building is  across the street from the state capitol building.  Rallies of all kinds take place on our front porch, and we often open our doors to weary protesters to use the restrooms and get water.  But it's also impossible not to be a social justice church when Atlanta's homeless population camps out on your sidewalks and in your alleys.  This is what we call being "situated at the corner of power and powerlessness."

My family didn't go to Central because it was a social justice church, like so many people do.  We visited because my dad had gone to college with the pastor at the time, and we joined because it was such a warm, welcoming place and much more closely aligned with our politics and theology.  A good many people in my family do actually feel called to social justice, I do not.  So I've been struggling with my place at Central for a while.

My best friend, Adam, works in the Outreach and Advocacy Center (OAC), which is housed in the basement of Central and works exclusively with Atlanta's homeless men and women.  He's good at what he does, and I admire him so much for his work.  He is also a youth leader with me, so every time we're leaving youth on Sunday nights, he'll stop and talk to all the men camped on our sidewalks.  They know him, and he knows all their names.  It's truly remarkable.  I am constantly in awe of how he and the other staff at the OAC interact with these people as if they are actual human persons...

Clearly I am not called to homeless ministry.  When we walk out, I let Adam do all the talking and then justify it by saying I'm not called to do that.  It makes me uncomfortable, I don't know what to say or how to act.  I feel guilt for not being homeless.  Then I feel guilt for walking past them.  And then I feel guilt for starting my car and driving away, not ever having done anything to be a witness to what I know Jesus is calling all of us to do.  Being a Centralite is both wonderful and terrible.

So when I was confronted with an inescapable situation this past Monday night, I lived in my discomfort for a while.  As I arrived at church for a session meeting with Dana, a man lying on the ground stopped us and began crying.  He said over and over that he's just so tired.  Then he said he's hungry, but mostly he just expressed that he was tired.  I had brought a granola bar for dinner, but knowing I could wait a few hours, I pulled it out and handed it to him.  As I did, a remarkable thing happened.  Our hands touched.  I was suddenly compelled to sit with him, and so I did.  I listened and rubbed his back and arms and hands as he talked.  Dana came over and kneeled down and asked if we could pray together.  So she prayed for this man, Rodrick, asking God to bring him comfort and rest.  I said literally not a single word.  The two of them did all the talking, I was simply moved to sit and listen.  

It was maybe one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever done, but I couldn't not do it.  Last week in Greek we translated the parable of the good Samaritan.  Our T.A. asked us what we thought the story was about.  The common answer to that question is that we should, of course, be like the good Samaritan.  But he said, "What if we are the beaten man and Jesus is the Samaritan?"  As I reflect upon this encounter, I wonder if maybe Jesus is the beaten man.  We never know what form God will take in our lives, and when Dana and I were walking away, Rodrick called out to us, "You don't know who you just talked to."  It haunts me.